The fever was still
burning in his veins and he was anxious to see what lay in front of him.
He did not hear the warning cries of his comrades, or, if hearing, he did
not heed them. He was still burning with the desire to see what lay there
in the depths of the forest. Paul, the scholar, the thinker, the future
statesman, had become transformed. In such a surcharged atmosphere he,
too, had turned into the primitive man, the fighter, the man who looks
upon every other man not proven a friend, as his natural enemy. The
bullets had ceased for the time being to whistle above his head and to
strike up the earth about him. He became conscious once more of the cannon
shots, shrieking over him, and the crash of the rifle fire came from right
and left.
A stick broke under Paul and he heard a shout in front of him. The shout
was so fierce, so fully charged with malice, that he sprang to his feet as
if he had been propelled by an electric shock. He stood face to face with
Don Francisco Alvarez, the plotter, the rebel, and leader of the attacking
army, a wild and terrible figure, clothes torn, bleeding from wounds, but
animated now by a savage joy. His pistol was leveled at the surprised
youth, and the next moment the deadly bullet would have been sped, but a
tall black-robed figure rose up from the bushes and threw Alvarez back.
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